


Remus Models for Sirius’ Art Class

by simplysirius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Feels, Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Relationship(s), Remus x Sirius, sirius x remus, wolfstar, wolfstar angst, wolfstar fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 15:34:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplysirius/pseuds/simplysirius
Summary: When Remus models for Sirius’ university art class, Sirius finds himself unable to speak, let alone hold his charcoals correctly. For Remus, modeling is easy, especially when he gets to stare at a handsome black-haired boy for an hour.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 91





	Remus Models for Sirius’ Art Class

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr @simplysirius for daily fics and fan art! I also take requests :)

Sirius Black’s figure drawing class was his favorite of the week, if only because it gave him a reason to stare at beautiful people.

He found his usual easel in the corner of the room and set up his sketchpad and tools with the rest of the students. They murmured their hellos to Professor McGongall as she entered the room, and readied their canvases for the first drawing.

“Here’s our model for the day! Up on the stage, if you please,” McGonagall introduced, guiding a boy into the center of the room, where an empty stool waited for him. In one swift motion, the boy slipped off his shirt and sat down.

Sirius’ body froze.

He wasn’t like any of the models that Professor McGonagall had brought in before. His skin wasn’t smooth marble waiting to be chiseled away into a masterpiece. His face wasn’t angular and the fluorescents didn’t harshly tear across his cheeks. His body wasn’t teeming with muscles or frail with bone, even as he lifted his nose in the air and settled into his first position.

The boy was soft around the edges, full cheeks and easy, long lines of pale skin. His tawny hair shone golden in the light, a tidy mop of curls that hung in his eyes no matter how many times he tried to blow them away from his long lashes. But the thing that most stuck out to Sirius was the boy’s scars, a myriad of marks and notches crawling up his arms and across his throat, settling behind his ears. One cut across the bridge of his crooked nose, paled white with time, made Sirius wince.

“You may begin the first drawing,” McGonagall announced, the room suddenly full of pencils scraping against paper, charcoals rolling in their trays.

Sirius hated profiles. He always made the face too small, the nose too big, never able to capture the life behind someone’s eyes. His lips twisted as his hand worked across the paper, knowing from the moment his pencil made the first mark it was all wrong. The curve of the boy’s back was too sharp, more crab than human, his stroke too loud. Every time his pencil dragged across the paper, the portrait became worse and worse, until the picture of the boy was unrecognizable, even with McGonagall’s thick glasses.

“Time’s up,” she said, and the students released a collective sigh, sharpening their utensils as they leaned back and observed their work. In the center of the room, the boy came to life, stretching his arms above his head and ruffling his hair with his long fingers. Sirius tried not to stare, tried to remind himself that this was the same person he had just looked at for twenty minutes, but it was like a whole new human standing before him.

The sculptures in the Louvre don’t move, but somehow this masterpiece could morph between stone and man as he pleased, his face once alabaster now flushed red, his heart springing to life.

“Do you want some water, Remus?”

The boy named Remus turned around to find McGonagall standing behind Sirius. His eyes flickered at the black-haired boy staring at him before shaking his head. “I’m alright, thanks. You guys are the ones doing all the work.”

Sirius was certain that the boy glanced at him again on accident.

McGonagall nodded. “Let’s do our second pose, then.”

Remus returned to his seat and sat with his back towards Sirius, propping his chin in the palm of his hand.

Normally, Sirius loved crafting the intricate muscles of a back frozen with tension, but this was absolutely uninspired. He wanted to see Remus’ face again, learn how his nose curved and the arc of his eyebrows. Instead, he made another bland drawing that no doubt belonged in the rubbish, or better yet, lit on fire.

After another grueling session, they finally began their last portrait of the session.

When Sirius glanced up from turning to a new page in his sketchbook, he nearly dropped his entire box of charcoals on the floor. Remus sat on the stool, shoulders pulled back, hands gently clasped in his lap, quietly looking right into Sirius’ eyes.

He was so busy staring at Remus that Sirius didn’t notice when McGonagall told the class to start, nor when she glanced over his shoulder at the blank paper.

“Think about the story,” McGonagall murmured, a gentle hand on his shoulder as her finger painted in the air. “Thing about the lines; where they come from, where they’re going. How did they get there? Don’t draw what you see. Draw what you don’t see.”

As she moved to the next easel, Sirius narrowed his eyes at the boy, seeing the lines of his arms, the curve of his jaw, the angle of his lips, but missing the thread that tied them together. What was his story?

Maybe he was in the military and there was a training incident. Maybe he accidentally fell through a window and shattered the glass. Maybe he liked extreme sports and had one too many harsh meetings with the ground.

No. Sirius was thinking too hard. What didn’t he see?

It took a long moment, but finally, he figured it out.

Sirius took a breath to steady his hand and made the first mark across his canvas, a long line for the boy’s throat, swiftly connecting it to the curve of his shoulders. Trying to ignore his heartbeat echoing in his ears, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, begging his brain to focus. Hardly looking at his paper, Sirius’ hand fell across the page almost as fast as his eyes flickered across Remus’ body, wanting to see everything at once.

His hand ached as his charcoal shaded in the coils of his curls, scraping along the veins in his neck, defining that white scar across his nose, lost in the process. Twenty minutes stretched for an hour, and then a year, and then a century. It would never be enough time to capture the effervescent radiance in front of him.

“Finshed!” McGonagall called. “That’s a wrap on today, everyone. Make sure you bring your portraits to critique tomorrow. And let’s thank our model today for his assistance.”

The class politely clapped as they packed up their belongings, breaking into a quiet chatter about the football game later tonight and the parties that followed. As the they filed out, Sirius lingered by his station, rocking on the balls of his feet. McGonagall stopped at the door.

“Sirius?”

“Oh, I kinda…want to finish this one. If that’s okay. I really like how it’s coming out,” Sirius explained, his fingers nervously fiddling with his charcoal.

McGonagall nodded approvingly at his canvas. “I think it’s the best one you’ve done all semester. Don’t forget to turn the lights off when you’re finished.” She left with a wave to Remus and Sirius, and then the boys were alone, a fact that did not escape either of them.

Remus glanced at the door before climbing back up on the stage in the middle of the room. “I’ll stay for you.”

“I can do it from memory,” Sirius said quickly as the Remus’ fingers grazed the hem of his t-shirt again. Despite his protests, Remus tossed his shirt aside and sat on the stool, returning to his pose.

“I was like this, right?”

Sirius pursed his lips, trying not to make anything of the kind gesture. Remus probably didn’t have anything else to do on a Friday night. He was just bored, maybe biding his time until the football game in an hour. Letting his eyes wash over his languid body, Sirius pointed his finger. “You were a little more to the right. Chin up, wait, right there. And you weren’t smiling.”

“Sorry,” Remus apologized, stretching his mouth open to wipe the grin off his face. Even with his restored placid expression, there was no denying that something had changed behind Remus’ eyes. They were still the same shade of honey brown, but there was a glimmer of hope laced in his irises, so bright that Sirius couldn’t ignore it.

An hour later when he could hardly feel his fingers and his hand was smudged black with charcoal, Sirius leaned back from his portrait and sighed. “I think I’m finished.”

Breaking from his repose, Remus cautiously approached the easel. “Mind if I look?”

“As long as you promise not to laugh,” Sirius said, only slightly kidding. Displaying his art was still a new concept, one he hadn’t quite gotten used to.

“Why would I…” Remus started, the rest of the words dying on his tongue as he took in his charcoal reflection. His eyes scanned the page once, twice, a thousand times, his head quietly shaking in disbelief. “That’s…me?”

Sirius nodded. “That’s what I saw.”

The boy on the canvas was smiling, the apples of his cheeks touching his eyes, fine lines crinkling beside his long eyelashes. His head was tilted back, just the slightest, so the curls fell out of his eyes and the enchanting glimmer was on full display.

It’s not what Sirius saw.

It’s what he didn’t see.

“You’re incredible,” Remus mused, and Sirius turned away quickly to hide the blood rushing all the way to the tips of his ears. In his haste, he dropped a pencil from his supply box, and frowned as it rolled away. Without needing to ask, Remus scrambled after it.

“Thanks for staying longer,” he mumbled. “Sorry I’m keeping you from the football game.”

“I’m not sorry,” Remus said, glancing out the windows at the bright stadium lights glowing in the distance before meeting Sirius’ eyes again. “Do you wanna go get some coffee? Or tea?”

“You don’t want to go to the game?”

“Football games are boring. Someone wins, someone loses, big deal,” Remus shrugged, and as he handed Sirius the runaway pencil, he let their fingers brush, a bolt of electricity careening through their bodies. “I think it’s more interesting when both teams win.”


End file.
